


Handcuffs

by Deejaymil



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Bondage, F/M, Handcuffs, Irresponsible Use of FBI Resources, PWP, Reid's a bit of a kink, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, There are no goats in this fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-27
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-24 16:14:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10745214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deejaymil/pseuds/Deejaymil
Summary: She walks in on him once.





	Handcuffs

**Author's Note:**

> She walks in on him once.

The room is silent but for the rustle of fabric by the hotel bed he’s kneeling beside. She walks silently, always, because she’s good at her job and it’s funny to see him startle like a baby deer. Because of this, she doesn’t make a sound; because of this, she hears him. The rasp of his breath and a low grunt that’s male and pained and from somewhere deep in his hollow chest.

She’s worried he’s been hurt. She’s worried he’s been attacked. From her stance by the door, she can see his head bowed down and the side of his jaw, mouth slightly parted and expression intense. Her hand slips to the butt of her gun and she steps forward: once, twice, three times; she says, “Reid.”

He jerks up with a gasp, standing before he’s registered that she’s there. And he’s sweaty: his brown hair mussed up real pretty on his sharp face, his mouth all bitten red, his cheeks flushed along the high spots. She swallows to compose herself, and then looks down at the corded muscles of his arms. Service cuffs straining against his skin, hands behind his back and barely visible except for the odd angle he’s at. They’re matte-grey against his human-pink. Despite his loose button-down and crumpled tie, she thinks in that moment that he’s never looked more fuckable.

“Well then,” she says, cocking her head and smirking at him. The cuffs click open. He’s picking them, a thin slide of metal visible between narrow fingers as his hands fall to his sides and his expression falters, shame and shock spreading equally across twitchy features.

“Elle, I can explain,” he says, eyes wide and body still angled oddly away. She wonders why. He could probably have hidden the cuffs if he wasn’t standing so strangely, at least for the time it would have taken to ask her to leave. She would have been suspicious; she wouldn’t have guessed the truth. “It’s… I worry. Practise. Uh, I’m practising for an… just in case.”

She believes that. But she also sees more.

“Boy scout,” she teases him, ignoring the fact that her body has suddenly realized he’s probably kinkier than she’d ever have guessed, and ignoring the fact that her body _likes_ that. “I won’t tell. Promise. You should lock the door though; _Morgan_ would never let you live this down.”

She won’t tell. Not about the cuffs or the shy embarrassment, or about the fact that even the tilted way he’s standing doesn’t hide that he’s a little bit hard in those sensible slacks.

It does occur to her later, in her lonely bed with her hand between her thighs and her lip bitten just like his was, that for a man with an IQ of 187, leaving the door unlocked was uncharacteristically dumb.

 

* * *

 

They’ll later blame the alcohol. They’ll blame the job, and the way it shoves grown adults into high-stress situations with no respite without giving them a way to destress that’s more effective than a hotel quickie. They’ll blame being lonely and they’ll blame being drunk and they’ll blame never knowing if they’re going home in a jet or a box.

Whatever force is actually at fault, she’s completely clear-headed when he walks her to her hotel room—408 and the door is creaky—and she loops a thumb around his too-thin belt and says, “Want one more for the night?”

She’s not asking him for a nightcap, and he’s not as ignorant as everyone suspects. The look he gives her isn’t hazy at all, nor is it tempted, not until she pushes him up against that creaky door and finds his mouth with hers. His lips are sour, hers are bitter with the ash of the cigarette she’d snuck before letting him lead her upstairs, and he’s as stiff and awkward as she’d always expected Pretty Boy Spencer to be. She’s not sure why she’s surprised.

She pushes and he turns his mouth away, so she relents just in time for him to dip and draw her back, his thin chest hitching just a little and a low kind of groan sounding from deep within him, something hungry and lonely and impossible to ignore. It’s not love. It’s lust and sex and primality, completely, and she responds in turn by raking her fingers through his knotty hair and biting down on those cupid lips as her body flushes wet between her hips.

She has a knee between his legs, forcing them apart, so when her hands find his wrists and hook them tight together, binding him loosely in a grip he could break in a heartbeat, she feels his cock jolt with interest.

She remembers the cuffs. They both pause.

And she leans closer, breathing heavily, remembers they’re in almost-public, and says, “Want me to show you how to _really_ pick cuffs, Skinny Boy?”

He brushes against her on the way through the door, and _jesusfuck_ he’s hard enough that she aches for him.

 

* * *

 

Service cuffs aren’t made for this; he’s going to have bruises he’ll have to cover in the morning.

She has a feeling that knowing that is getting him off just as much as she is.

Angles and shapes and bony edges; he’s a long line of skin and surprising muscle culminating in the suggestive trail of hair creating an arrow to his straining cock. It curves up and towards her as she straddles him, one hand on his overwarm abdomen and her eyes locked on the cuffs holding him to the bed-frame.

He’s gorgeous, like this, flushed pink with white-rimmed eyes that are half-frightened with pupils as black as sin itself, and she can almost feel him throbbing into her at the relinquishment of control he’s gifted her. Because it is a gift; none of them are vulnerable easy, not even those of them who crave it, and his fingers shake around the metal slide.

She drags her nails up his side, letting them bite down, bite deep. Feels him twitch and his hips jerk up, seeking her, hears the breathy _ahs_ he’s making as he struggles to breathe around his arousal turn to ragged gasps. He likes her marking him. Red lines that lead up his hips, up his too-skinny sides, _bump bump bump_ over ribs that she counts as she goes. There’s a wet line across her inner thigh where he’s rubbed against her; he’s silent but he doesn’t have to speak for her to know he’s lost.

And he’s gorgeous like this but she wants to see him frantic, so she keeps sliding those wicked hands up until her fingers wrap around his, the cuffs rattling, and she’s arched down over his body with her hips canted up. Tits almost on his face, and he’s a good boy, not one to let an opportunity like that slide, so he takes a nipple in his mouth and teases it relentlessly as she whispers, “Like this, bucko,” and shows him how to twist the lock open.

His fingers are swift, they learn quickly. Even with her distracting him by bumping her hips down and outlining his cock in the wet line of her cunt, rubbing against him like a cat in heat just to feel his tongue and lips pause and huff with want. She shows his fingers what to do without actually doing it, and then she jerks the chain on the cuffs tight and sinks down deep.

He cries out. He slams up into her and he’s hard, too hard, too deep, too fast. It hurts but she wants it to and the metal slide is lost. There are keys on the dresser but he doesn’t want them. Just keeps slamming up into her brokenly, his arms twisted and wrists scuffed up nice by the bruising metal, and she’s crying his name and swearing at him and cussing mindlessly, thoughtlessly, heedlessly.

“Need to touch,” he groans, arms jerking and snapping the cuffs against the wooden frame. “Elle, Elle, _Elle_.”

But he’s given her control and she knows he wants her to keep it.

“No,” she says, and sinks her hands around his shoulders. “Not today, _papi_. Not today.”

His eyes widen. The cuffs click. And come loose.

He picked them.

She has no idea how.

But suddenly she’s rolled, on her back with his weight over her. His eyes are cold cold cold and she’s almost coming just from that. And she’s misjudged him, thinking what he needs is to be vulnerable. It’s not that. It’s not that at all.

He needs the release.

“Let me touch you,” he hisses through gritted teeth, his dick slick inside her and pulsing in time with her heartbeat, and she wants to come while he’s looking this wrecked so she whispers, _yes_.

His eyes are rough, his hands are gentle, and he makes her come first before making a mess of her legs and the sheets and his pretty, pink-flushed body. And he slumps down atop her, breathing rough and still sweaty-hot and sticky.

“You left the door open on purpose,” she says, twisting the cuff around his grazed wrist, weirdly comforted by his shifting weight. “You cheeky shit.”

“You didn’t knock,” he retorts.

He’s not wrong.

And he’s rarely dumb.

 


End file.
